


/window\

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Dementia, Established Relationship, Future, Le Big Sad, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Sad, Sad Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28659381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm can’t find his husband. Gil’s wandering somewhere around the city, lost without any true sense of direction, and Malcolm can’t find him anywhere.One of a few entries with a focus on improving writing sadness.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





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**Author's Note:**

> for friends who challenged each other to improve on writing sadness this year <3

Malcolm’s feet pound against the concrete, each strike rattling up his shins into his knees, shaking through him in a panic that drums into his ribs. “Gil! Gil!” he calls, head whipping around as he approaches the bustling intersection. His forward motion gets cut off by a pack of pedestrians waiting at the side of a turning box truck.

He can’t find his husband. He double-checked the locks on the doors, set the alarm, and snugly tucked beside him in bed like a koala, but Gil still got out. His husband’s wandering somewhere around the city, lost without any true sense of direction, and he can’t find him anywhere.

No beard, no beard, curly hair, too short, too tall, wrong gait—Malcolm scans the crowd of people walking through the don’t walk sign, but no one matches Gil. As his way clears and he can walk as well, he looks through pea coats and puffy jackets but doesn’t find Gil’s well-loved Brooks Brothers or turtleneck sweater. The thought that Gil left in less on this bitterly cold day sends a shiver through his fingers. He did everything he was supposed to do to help keep his husband safe, yet here he is, racing up the street as fast as his feet will carry him shouting blindly into the morning rush. “Gil!”

_He might not remember little things some days. It might take a bit of extra time to recognize his surroundings._ The doctor’s words circle in Malcolm’s head, taunting him he could be doing more. He _should_ be doing more. He should be able to find his husband in the damn city he’s lived in for most of his life. He should be able to help him.

The pet shelter chimes and he looks through the picture window at the fluff balls inside. Cats and dogs being pet and cuddled by a number of warm eyes but no Gil. Distinct enclosures with feathered friends ready to accompany someone home, a distant memory of one loved long ago. He bumps past a person walking out the door and holds his hands up in apology, continuing on his destination-less pursuit.

_You are there_ chimes in his mind every turn of a corner, every glance at a storefront, but Gil’s face missing is a fresh disappointment turned over in the earth only to resurface the next place he looks. Would Gil stop and talk to somebody? Explain he was lost? Try to go somewhere familiar? What does familiar feel like to someone having difficulty with their memory? Is it there and gone again, a slip through their hands as the shading fades to grey and disappears into the abyss? Might Gil have headed for the precinct? Back home?

Malcolm runs faster, feet scrambling up the sidewalk like Road Runner and barrels into the next intersection. “Gil! Gil!” he shouts, turning heads so he can profile them faster. Twenty nameless faces look back at him. No goatee, no growing smile, no frown, no—

“ _GIL!_ “

_New Low Price of $49.99_ , _Coming Soon on FOX_ , _NOW PLAYING_ —none of the signs shouting for attention point him in the direction of his husband. There’s not a meter running telling him likely vicinity, no GPS blipping proximity, no clues assuaging the gut punch that he lost him. That Gil’s alone and terrified that he can’t figure out where he is, or worse, hurt or found by someone who doesn’t understand.

Reaching a place where he can wait and get his bearings, he slides down the stone and rests his head against the graffitied building. He counts his breaths for a minute, maybe five, maybe… the repetitive inhales and exhales bring some sense of calmness.

Incessant buzzing at his hip sends him reaching for his pants pocket. He misses the first go, but at the second, he finds a phone on the ground. It shakes in his palms, whether from the vibration or his nerves, he doesn’t know. He inspects it, at a loss for what to do.

“—d. Malcolm! Malcolm!” shouts through his fingers.

“Gil?” Malcolm looks at the screen, not making any more sense of what he’s seeing. “Where are you?”

“Sweetheart”—a rush of air comes through the phone, backed by frantic words—“I’ll come get you. Can you look up at the street signs? Or read some of the storefronts?”

“I’m home.” Malcolm sniffs, the chill in the air making his nose run. “I’m sitting outside—I thought you might come back. I couldn’t find you—I-I looked everywhere.”

“It’s okay, kid. I’m not far. I’ll be right there.” Gil seems sure, and it’s enough to simmer Malcolm’s fear to nervously scanning his surroundings.

Malcolm looks up at the trees in the park across the street, no leaves left to fill in their patchy branches. He slowly traces every rail in the black gate and follows the fence down to where it disappears at the corner. As he pans back, a man crouches in front of him. Malcolm shrinks against the stone, cautioning, “I’m waiting for my husband.”

“Hey, kid.” The man presses a candy into his hand and closes his fingers around it. The plastic edges poke at his palm, crinkle against his fingers as he unravels them. Another hand rests at his neck, calloused fingertips massaging into his nape.

“I couldn’t find you,” Malcolm says quietly and unwraps the candy. Lemon-lime hits his tongue, replacing his worry as the candy starts to dissolve. “I set the alarm, I did everything I could, and you were still gone.”

Gil sits beside him on the ground and rests a jacket and an arm over his shoulders. The warmth starts to replace a chill Malcolm didn’t realize he had. “I know. That’s how I found you,” Gil tries to explain, but it still doesn't make any sense. He takes a deep breath, looking over Malcolm’s t-shirt and sleep pants, stalling at his bare feet. “Doesn’t matter now. Let’s get you back to the house.”

“I’m—“

“At the loft. We moved.” Gil leans his head into Malcolm’s.

“Yeah, I remember,” Malcolm gives his default answer. He knew yet didn’t at the same time, two pseudo-realities converging, only leaving a confused lens on the world.

“Okay.”

They rest against each other a moment, a lifetime that leaves shivers running through Malcolm’s frame from the cold concrete underneath him, the frigid air around him.

“Car’s right there,” the man points down the street. Mom’s new driver, maybe?

“I don’t need any help.”

The man stands to the side while Malcolm pushes against the stone and gets to his feet. Malcolm’s heels scratch against the concrete, a painful reminder that he’s walking around the city barefoot. “I need my shoes, dad,” he calls into the car.

“When we get home.”

The car is a sauna, returning his body temperature to normal, then boiling him until his thoughts pop. “ _GIL!_ ” he shouts, face plastered to the window trying to spot his husband among the passersby.

The car slams to a halt, horns squawking around them vying for recognition. They end up double-parked on some unknown street in some unknown neighborhood as cars weave around them. He turns his head to glare at the driver, and wide eyes look back at him.

“I need to find my husband.” His voice trembles with the weariness of searching all morning, for longer than that, maybe. For needing his Gil, just out of reach.

A hand squeezes the back of his neck. “I’m here, kid. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm offers, his lip wavering. He can tell by the deep etches of concern on the man’s face that it’s what he’s supposed to say. The words aren’t enough to erase them.

Quick as he could pick up the microexpressions, it takes several moments longer to recognize that man is his husband. His shoulders hunch in on himself under the now-familiar touch. “Where are we going?”

“Home.”

“I remember.”

The fingers slip away and the car starts moving again. Lulled by the casual knock of the old shocks, Malcolm looks out the window for a trace of his life. For warm brown eyes and a salt and pepper goatee, a well-loved coat, and a laugh he’d know anywhere.

Nothing breaks through the windows. He’s left inside, looking out for a man he sees in his periphery from time to time, yearning to reach out.

* * *

_fin_


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